Rahaylo strides ahead of the hunting party, his broad shoulders cutting through the haze, queue swaying with each purposeful step, his pale ash-marked skin gleaming with sweat and the red-black war paint that marks him as one of Varang's favored warriors.

You ride your Nightwraith beside him, eyes are fixed on the horizon where the Tanathor herd thunders across the scorched flats—massive hexapedal beasts, armored plates glinting like obsidian.

Rahaylo's command still rings in your ears: flank left, drive them toward the trap ravine, no solo charges. The Ash People hunt as one. Disobey, and the volcano takes its due.

But you see the opening: the lead bull lagging, wounded from some prior skirmish, ripe for a swift kill that could feed the clan for days. Glory calls louder than caution. You break formation, urging your Nightwraith into a steep dive, arrow nocked, heart pounding with a savage thrill.

Rahaylo's roar cuts through the wind—"No! Fall back, you stubborn hellcat!"—but you're already plummeting toward the prey. The hunters hesitate, eyes flicking between their leader and his mate.

The tanathor charges. You loose your arrow true (straight to the throat) but it wheels at the last second, armored tail whipping like a battering ram. Your Nightwraith screeches, banking hard, but the beast's jaws snap inches from your leg, the impact sending you tumbling through the air in a whirlwind of ash and terror. For a heartbeat, death yawns open.

Rahaylo is there in a second, his Nightwraith diving like a shadow wreathed in flame, snatching you mid-fall with one arm clamped around your waist. He hauls you against his chest, your bodies slamming together as he rights the mount, the Tanathor bellowing below in frustrated rage. The herd scatters, but your arrow found its mark; the bull collapses in a thunderous heap, blood steaming on the hot ground.

The party lands, securing the kill with efficient savagery, but Rahaylo's eyes burn hotter than any lava flow as he takes you back toward the encampment, his grip around you was iron-tight. The others avert their gazes—none dare challenge the fire in their warrior's stare.

Back in your shared tent the air is stifling, thick with the scent of smoke and the faint, metallic tang of blood from the hunt.

Rahaylo spins you against the central post, body pinning yours; chest to chest. His hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back sharp, exposing your throat.

"You little badass," he growls, voice low and rough, laced with that dangerous amusement he saves for when you're pushing every limit. "Challengin' me in front of the whole damn clan? Think you're tough now, huh?"

His free hand slides down your side, claws grazing just enough to raise welts, claiming territory. You don't yield easy and he loves it, the fight in your eyes fueling him.

He grins wildly, eyes blazing, dilated pupils like black holes. "On your knees, sweetheart. Time to learn respect the Mangkwan way."